No Coming Back by Keith Houghton Read Free Book Online Page A

after I’m gone. I need someone I can depend on. Someone with sharp eyes and a nose for a good story. Someone o ut for—”
    “Revenge?”
    A smile makes a brief appearance. “I was going to say for the good of the people. But if that works, who am I to say otherwise? The truth is, in the short term, I need a dependable reporter and you need a regular paycheck. Whichever way you slice it, this is one heck of a deal for us both, right?” He takes something out of his pocket and slides it across the tabletop. It’s a plain white envelope, thickened by its contents. “Go ahead, count it. There’s a thousand dollars in there. Consider it an advance on your first month’s wage.”
    I shake my head. “Keep your charity.”
    He leaves the envelope where it is. “Loosen up, son. I know you got your education in prison. Top marks with flying colors. Got that journalism degree, too, I hear. So quit playing hardball and put all that learning to good use. Think about it. Everyone believes you’re a convicted murderer. Who else is going to give you a job round here?” He pushes the envelope to my side of the table. “We’ll get you started on a basic two thousand dollars a month. Plus commission.”
    It’s probably double the salary of his last reporter, and I tell him so. Harper isn’t exactly a hubbub of news stories. No high demand for investigative journalism hereabouts.
    He dismisses my hesitance with a wave of his liver-spotted hand. “Want to know something? Your mother was the best photo-journalist I ever worked with. She was the best. I owe it to her to make good with you. Besides, I’m cash-heavy these days, and I can’t take any of it with me.”
    I take a mouthful of cooling coffee, one eye on the envelope.
    The waitress brings his pancakes. Lars tucks an oversized napkin in the neck of his sweater and dives in.
    Up until a couple of days ago, I cleaned tables in a mall in St. Paul and bedded down in a hostel. The job wasn’t riveting and the accommodation wasn’t The Ritz. Lars’s job offer is a good one. Generous. Better than the roll of ones dwindling in my pocket. It will provide security and a means to stay in Harper—if that’s wha t I want.
    We all have a price. But do I want to owe Lars my soul?
    One thing I am sure of is that being on Lars’s payroll comes with expectations, obligations. Lars never does anything without good reason. Once you’re indebted to him, your life is his to do with as he pleases. Sure, I need the money, but it’s all about the lesser of two evils and what I’m prepared to live with, or not.
    It’s hard not to get burned when you’re fascinated by fire.
    Lars swallows down a mouthful of pancake. “Must have come as a shock, that scene this morning. Don’t pretend you don’t give a damn, Jake, because I know you better than that.”
    “You know nothing about me, Lars.”
    “I know enough. I’ve kept track of you over the years. I know you have principles, that you’re loyal, that you’re a survivor. I kno w yo u wanted the Luckmans to hear it from your own lips, rather than read about it in the paper. That takes some balls. You got a conscience and that’s golden in my line of work.” He wipes whipped cream from his lips. “That discovery this morning, some might say it’s more than coincidence that this hits the fan the minute you walk back into town. If I were a God-fearing man I’d say it’s divinely ordained. So I’ll ask again: what’s my story?”
    Acquiescing, I bring up the photo on my phone and slide it across the tabletop, past the untouched envelope. One of his wiry eyebrows tilts at the picture glowing on the screen, then the ruddy color drains from his skin as his eyes focus properly on the image.
    I’ve never seen Lars look even remotely shocked before. It’s the most emotion I’ve seen from him that isn’t fueled by anger.
    “She was buried under the tree,” I say. “The bedrock is close to the surface up there. It looks like